


Invariant

by Holdt



Series: Position Assurance [3]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Injustice: Gods Among Us, Man of Steel (2013), Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien/Human Relationships, Anger Management, Angst, Cognitive Dissonance, Cultural Differences, Depression, Dissociation, Dysfunctional Family, Eugenics, Families of Choice, Family Issues, Family Secrets, Fortress of Solitude, Genetically Engineered Beings, Homophobia, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kryptonian Culture, M/M, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 15:52:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12510872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holdt/pseuds/Holdt
Summary: Time tag: Post-Position AwarenessClark calculates. The numbers don't add up.If anyone is interested, I write everything to music. I listened to these songs while writing this:Bastille - Good GriefThe XX - PerformanceVitamin String Quartet - Something I Can Never have (NIN cover)The Rasmus - Time to BurnThis story is part ofLLF Comment Project, whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:FeedbackShort commentsLong commentsQuestionsConstructive criticism“<3” as extra kudosReader-reader interactionLLF Comment BuilderThis author replies to comments.





	1. Chapter One: Simple Factoring

**Chapter One: Simple Factoring  
**

 

~“You wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.”~ -Toni Morrison, _Song of Solomon_

This isn’t Clark’s first lesson.

 _“Jahghah_ ,” the Monitor intones, its artificial tones warbling at a low frequency comfortable for Clark in the enforced sterility of his Fortress; restraint. Restraint was one of the Virtues most prized by the House of El, once you got Truth, Justice and Hope out of the way.

“ _Jahghah; restraint,_ ” Clark lilts. The desires, passions and self-interests of the individual must fall into harmony with the ethics of the community. Without restraint, there can be no peace; _zha urvish_. Peace brings beauty and prosperity, and the greater the inner peace, the greater the self-control gained. Clark tries to submerge himself in the meditation; think selflessly on it, tries not to resent the glyph and the implication that he requires reinforcement. His entire life has been and is an exercise in restraint, in making peace, in _being peaceful_. The mellow tone indicating success calms his nerves, as always.

 _“Gazrhyg_ ,” he repeats, careful to let the fricatives roll air between his teeth. He’s had enough lectures on accent from the Monitor; particularly chiding ones when he has the audacity to sound ‘Kandorian’, which as far as Clark can tell, means not emphasizing his alveolar double consonants sufficiently. It remains difficult, but Clark’s body was made for this, and he’s determined to have his way. “ _Gazrhyg; Industriousness._ ” He knows it like he knows the rush of breaking frozen Spring ground for new crops, like he knows the sound of tractors and cattle-tagging. Clark knows how to keep busy. “ _Rral stovil dol vros nan_ ,” he murmurs to himself, then winces at the scratchy, high-pitched burr that signifies his errors.

“Negative,” the Monitor responds. “ _Ta gaolomahzh shokh, Kal-ehljran?_ ” Clark takes a moment to unravel the syntax and the tonal indicators, and once he understands what’s being asked of him, he’s on his feet in indignation. ‘ _Will you know the truth, Honored of El?_ ’ it asks. Wrapped within that interrogative is ‘ _Do you want to learn, Honored Kal of El?’_ He’s misplaced the subjunctive again, but this is a matter of culture, not syntax. The Monitor isn’t questioning his linguistics—it’s dismissing his words as sentiment and a false statement altogether; questioning the validity of his view of reality; and no, this won’t do.

“No,” he says insistently. “It does make sense. Cross-reference; poetry. Imagination. _Rral stovahl dol jevvrrosh nan_.” _Hungry hands make a joyful place for evil_ ; Idle hands are the devil’s playground. He means exactly what he said, give or take a clause. The Monitor scans him, flashes the same complex sequence of colors and clicks as it does when it declares that he’s been made ill via ‘over-stimulation’.

“ _Nahn girte zhguzhor._ ” ‘ _Your imagination is non-standard.’_ Meaning: less than ideal. Ironic, seeing as _zhguzhor_ , imagination, was a prime tenet of many ancient Houses of Krypton. This Monitor servant though, is from the Expansionist Era; it discourages divergence from the strict Codex ideal. It doesn’t think much of the cultures of homo sapiens, and though Clark is an adult, the Monitor is a steward of overall mental and physical health for those under its care. The artificial aide follows Clark’s every step and is a constant observer. It makes sense, really-Clark can only imagine what deep space travel would be, without an intelligence of some sort to share the journey. Perhaps the Monitor is slightly harsh in its approach, but it’s centuries old—ancient tech; far more likely that the Monitor was never intended to have only one adult charge. Consequently, from time to time, though Clark finds that the Kryptonian technology never outright refuses him, it does often request clarification or attempt correction.

“ _Uwe khahp gir._ ” ‘ _I am not standard,’_ Clark can hear that he’s invested too much emotion into his response.

The gleaming metal of the Monitor servant doesn’t reveal emotional context, although Clark is almost entirely sure that the technology does run some rudimentary emotional subroutines. After approximately ten seconds of stillness, the Monitor swings into action, arms waving as it details glowing glyphs on the crystalline walls. A mellow, rewardingly pleasant tone reverberates.

“You are of the House of El,” English now and his Ship seems… amused? Clark relaxes slowly then sinks back down onto the raised sitting surface and enjoys his victory for all of five seconds.

 _“Jahghah_ ,” the Monitor repeats, because Clark may have won an argument, but he lost his temper while doing so. Multiple arms of the Monitor are helpfully pointing to the areas of his scan which support this claim.

Clark rests his head back against the wall and counts to ten, then twenty. He closes his eyes in the privacy of his Fortress and counts to ten again, much slower, before he answers.

“ _Jahghah,”_

Restraint. Clark wants _tahrao_ ; justice.

He has so many lessons to go.


	2. Chapter Two: Improper Factions

**Chapter Two: Improper Factions  
**

 

 

 

_“Unbelievable. Irresponsible!”_

_“Forgive me if I don’t feel the need to micro-manage every aspect of every second of every patrol, B. I don't want to argue with you.”_

_“No, you don't want to argue-you want to dismantle my entire investigation. You want to be spontaneous. You barely even know what you want. And while you’re busy trying to figure that out, you’re a liability to me. If you don’t like my methods and you can’t be bothered to obey my command then stay out of my way, Clark.” He’s dismissive as he turns._

_Clark stares at him. “You can’t fire me, Bruce. I don't work for you. Contrary to what you believe, I’ve never worked for you. Look… you’re a big picture guy-I get it. You like a wide lens and a lot of detail. I don't need that - I just need a goal and someone in trouble.”_

_“You cannot resolve endemic problems by throwing yourself at them as they come. This is why I have plans, to catch the real bad guys. Not these penny-ante crooks. This is-” Bruce stops, mouth flattening. His eyes harden. “No. This ends now.”_

_“B?”_

_“Now, do you understand? You fly around like an idiot with a target on your back all you want during the daytime; at night, this city is mine. You don’t do nights anymore. You can’t hack it. This isn't you. You don't deserve it.”_

_“But. Who’s going to watch your back?” Clark’s numb. Only the basics seem important right now._

_“I’ve been watching my own back pretty well for going on thirty years now. I think I can manage.” Bruce stares at Clark until Clark shakes his head and looks aside._

_“You’re serious.” His chest aches. “Fine, B. If that’s what you want.” It’s clear to Clark that whatever understanding they have, whatever intimacy, is unraveling._

_“Clark, you don’t know the criminal element here the way that I do. You don’t understand. I need you to listen, and I need you to stop questioning everything and just_ trust _me—”_

_Clark wipes a hand over his face; he’s frowning, mouth turned down. “One criminal is the same as any other.” It’s true._

_“If that’s so, then what are you doing, by helping me?”_

_Bruce, talking in circles again, not making any sense. Clark isn’t the one with a trust problem—it’s Bruce who has the problem. But Bruce isn’t listening (as he so usually doesn’t) and he won’t hear how Clark is right (even though he is). Bruce approaches him, looks him over and takes a step closer._

_B’s hand is almost on his shoulder, and Clark opens his mouth to speak and what comes out is “Stop.” He stands still, swallows as Bruce’s hand lowers and then Clark turns on his heel and walks away._

_Bruce doesn’t try to call him back._

_For eight days Bruce is polite and reserved. He makes no overtures to break through their misfire of a conversation. Clark goes where he likes at night and saves who he can; he knows Bruce checks in on him from time to time, but the Bat never stops or speaks to him. Clark can feel his attention but he doesn’t look and he doesn’t so much as enter Clark’s space on the street or in the home. It’s his fault; it must be. It’s his fault that Bruce doesn’t want him to patrol nightly; it’s his fault that Bruce won’t come near him now. Bruce doesn’t trust Clark, not to back him up, not to make the right call._

_'You don't deserve it.'  Bruce's words replay themselves in Clark's ears until he wishes he'd ignored his outrage and kept his mouth shut._

_He doesn't understand how they can be true._

_On the ninth day, Clark walks into Bruce’s study barefoot. Bruce looks up from his pile of papers requiring a signature with his pen in hand. His chair turns slightly towards the door. He raises his eyebrows._

_Before he can speak, Clark strips down, silently kneels beside Bruce’s chair and presses his forehead mutely to Bruce’s knee. There’s no gasp, no outward sound of relief, but after a long chill-inducing moment, Bruce’s hand strokes over his head._

_I’m sorry, he tries to press into the heat of Bruce’s leg._

_“Stick to Uptown,” Bruce murmurs finally. “Leave Midtown and parts south to me.” There’s a tightness to Bruce’s tone that Clark doesn’t want to verify if he’s the reason for. “I’m aware that I am abundantly territorial, Clark.”_

_And there it is; Clark can’t be trusted because he’s not Gotham. Everything comes back down to this crumbling city, for B. He has a more devoted relationship with the place than he has or wants to have with Clark._

_But if this is a part of what B demands then Clark will concede until the matter comes to a head. After all, B has a point—he isn’t an innocent, he isn’t unprepared; he doesn’t need Clark swooping in to save the day or do his heavy lifting._

_But maybe, just maybe it’s more than that: maybe B doesn’t want Clark to think less of him. Maybe he isn’t just talking about his city when he mentions his obsessive territorialism. Maybe, just maybe, Clark fits into that category of people and places that Bruce doesn’t want dirtied by others._

_It’s a nice thought._


	3. Chapter Three: Simplest Form

**Chapter Three: Simplest Form  
**

 

“Dissociation is the common response […] to repetitive, overwhelming trauma;” -Judith Spencer

 

 

He doesn’t want to talk about his illness; he doesn’t want to invite speculation on why he can’t sleep. Jor-El’s engram is a nuisance.

“It is heresy, for Kal-El to allow dominion by any creature of this world. They are weak shadows of the genetic masterpiece that formed them. It is uncivilized for this human to rule the House of El.”

Kal smirks in his Command Chair; the three-dimensional projections of information scrolling around his head don’t pause. “You keep talking about propriety, but all I hear is xenophobia.”

“You are the last son of Krypton. You must carry the ways of your ancestors. Kal-El, you have chosen unwisely. This male cannot further the line; he is troublesome and unbent; he causes you pain.”

Clark shakes his head slightly and takes a moment to reflect on the type of society that would create a machine to display their distaste to children—he won’t discuss the intricacy of his _desires_ with the AI. Its choice of wording explains more than the memory of Krypton's poetry ever could about the attitudes of those living in the city-colony of Kryptonopolis. He’s been peacefully studying star charts and cross-referencing objects; he isn’t in the mood for this now.

“You were discussing epigenetics.” He’s learned how to sidestep the most linear inquiries, though the adaptive module is quickly catching up to his diversions.

“Correct; you display a pre-Colonial attitude towards matters that is considered an uncivil distraction, Kal-El. You are within your nature, but you prove non-compliant.” The AI is maddeningly unconcerned about its own complicity. “These traits are most commonly a result of incorrect training—”

“Pre-Colonial,” Kal interrupts. He thinks about what he’s read, what he’s been taught and what hasn’t been said. “You’ve said that I was intended. Expected.”

“I was a natural birth.” It’s unthinkable… isn’t it? To imagine the man who’d made this stern rigid template, breaking the laws he was so quick to lecture Clark on. The AI is silent and there is Kal’s answer. Kal couldn’t possibly have been natural, expected _and sanctioned._

_It had deceived him._ Not it; _he._ Unsanctioned reproduction had been illegal. Unsanctioned reproduction via base-gene breeding—anathema. There’s a headache lingering just within the bounds of consciousness; if Kal can remain in his learning trance, he can avoid it.

“So my father was a heretic.” Kal’s fingers twitch as he sends commands, a section of data telescopes outward into branching options. He chooses agriculture and registers the flicker of the AI’s holographic output. _Displeasure_.

Jor-El pauses for a fraction of a millisecond. “Jor-El was one of the greatest Scientists of his generation.”

“ _You are a heretic_.” Kal bares his teeth.

“I was a visionary,” Jor-El states, face creased in solemn compassion.

“You were a criminal. A criminal and a heretic. That’s what you’re teaching, right now.”

“Jor-El _was_ a heretic,” it confirms. Kal wants to force it to commit, to be one thing or the other.

“And you were based on him,” Kal presses. “Who are _you_ to challenge me about propriety?”

“I am a protector of Krypton’s history.” Jor-El’s hologram looks wounded.

“Says the man who put my mother, _his wife’s_ life in danger, for the sake of proving a scientific point. It isn’t your actions, Jor-El—it’s the hypocrisy here that I have trouble with.” The flow of information around him slows to a crawl as Kal’s attention becomes strained. His temple pounds.

Jor-El’s engram blinks. He takes exactly two-point-six seconds to process. A flicker of new emotion crosses its face. “Jor-El was merely your gene-seed—you can exceed your original parameters, Kal-El—”

“Careful,” Clark says bitterly. “You’re sounding awful heretical, Teacher. Or is it the _Jor-El_ in you that I’m hearing? What is the purpose of warning me against heresy when I come from a House of heretics? Did you become a revisionist right before or after your death?”

“Kal-El, you must not—”

“You will never tell me _again_ , what I must do.”

_There_ is the reaction; there in eyes just like his own, and he knows that he’s hurt the AI (as much as anyone can), but if this dispassionately sad expression is what Clark looks like when he’s in the throes of agony, it’s no wonder people disbelieve his sincerity. The engram’s hand lifts towards Clark, then falls. It can’t touch him; they both know this. “My son. It is _blasphemy_ , Kal-El.”

Kal’s hand clenches on the Chair. “I love him. I’m his.” But he can’t finish the traditional words; _he’s mine_ , he can’t say.

The AI flickers, probably realizes that his omission is deliberate. It bows its head in sorrow. “Love is not quantifiable, Kal. Nor conducive.”

“Yeah, well neither is heresy, _clearly_.” His chest is heaving; he swallows hard at the obstruction in his throat. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“My son,” it says again and Clark can’t bear it.

“You aren’t my father,” grinds out of him.

Jor-El steps close, so close that if he were there in the flesh, Clark would be able to feel the heat of him. He stares into Clark’s eyes. “Who is your father? The man who died to protect your secrets, sending you from a planet destined to die, or the man who raised you, only to die to protect your secrets from his own planet?”

The display dissolves. The unfocused rush of cold panic that hits Clark can’t sustain a clear telepathic connection to the hardware. He’s been learning the software; it seems the software has been learning him in turn.

“I would never have sentenced children to die, not if I had the withall to save them. Not every sacrifice is an acceptable loss, Kal-El.” Jor-El’s sincerity is nauseating.

“Leave me alone!” Clark doesn’t want to be like him; he doesn’t, but he is. He allows the Ship to feed him nutrients until his pain passes.

The AI doesn’t speak to him again until many cycles later. Clark might find it amusing, that they dislike each other so much, if it weren't such a effective mirror of his relationship with everything Kryptonian.

He doesn’t know why the AI is so set on warning him away from his deeper emotions. It takes him long hours thinking, to come around to the idea that perhaps it’s as simple a thing as guilt.

Neither of them can be less or more than what they are.


	4. Chapter Four: Equivalent and Inverse

**Chapter Four: Equivalent and Inverse  
**

 

Time passes strangely, not just in the Fortress but at this edge of the world. He forgets when day and night are—it’s summer, and Sol fills him with energy and purpose. Kal loses himself for days that feel like hours; the constant sun relieves him of all need for sleep. He meditates while he learns, processes, lets the knowledge seep into him, allows his mind free rein to consider action. The noises of the larger world don’t intrude here—the walls of his Fortress are strong. This is his bastion of sanity on a planet that never stops diverting his attention. The silence is profound and Kal allows the Monitor-servant to lull him into a training trance. He dives into new subjects with glee—he wants to know _everything_ ; everything he can understand. He’s capable of comprehending a great deal, to the delight of the AIs on-board. The Monitor approves of his studious passion; Jor-El’s engram approves of his cultural interests. Krypton won’t die, not if Kal can keep it alive in himself.

There are hard-won spans of time, when the Monitor chastises him ruthlessly. Jor-El seems to believe that it’s Kal’s duty to manage Earth and the AI has some unsettling proposals to offer. Kal argues about the nature of truth; he’s told that he has a child’s understanding of his place in the world. He argues about the Kryptonian ideal of justice, and how suffocating its dispensation is; he’s told that his anger is truth—that exercising anger for justice would be better for humanity than any Human leader ever truly could. Jor-El cuts the legs out from under his logic and Kal rejects the AI’s conclusions. The AIs insist that Kal is a ‘lost child’, that he doesn’t know his own history. It makes him frantic to think they might be correct in their understandings. Kal needs to _know._ He builds his case again.

He explains the validity of representative republics; he’s informed that he is genetically and ethically superior and therefore should lead Earth despite what humans choose, because they are morally unable to represent themselves as a whole.

He argues that _he_ deserves peace as much as Earth does and that sovereignty over the entire planet would be a hardship on any sentient being’s peace; Jor-El helpfully forewarns him that his future belongs to Krypton and that Kal’s Warrior guild genetics will activate predictably, when the threat is great enough. Kal accepts that he is what he was created to be and demands more restraint training.

The AI is scornful. Kal practices his breathing.

Jor-El tells him that the good of the many is much more important than the will of the few, and in practice, Kal agrees, but the extension of this thought down the path into ‘justice until peace’ makes him heartsick. It can’t be true. The AI is pitying. Kal realizes that it’s more difficult to accept who he’s _chosen_ to be, and struggles with despair.

_For every flooded river Clark can block, there will always be those caught in the wake upstream._

He accepts that people will die, and that he can help, but ultimately it’s in the best interest of humanity for Earth to be self-directed as long as possible.

Thoughts of the short time when he’d planned otherwise disturb him deeply.

The endless sun soaks him in manic debate. Day by day Kal feels himself being tested, feels his ideologies and assumptions ripped to shreds and reassembled. Day by day he becomes aware that there are some parts of his birth world that have no place on his homeworld.

Finally, Kal argues for free will and the individual’s right to self-determination; he asks if that isn’t exactly why Jor-El sent Kal from Krypton, against the will of the Synod. He asks if those concepts aren’t precisely why Jor-El and Lara conceived and loved against Law, to create Kal. He argues that he will never choose a guild; that he is of all guilds and can never be lowered or raised up, like humanity. Kal pleads for the sanctity of life and the sacred truth of freedom for its own sake.

“What good is peace,” he asks, “-in a world full of fear?”

Jor-El’s engram and the Monitor-servant confer for many lesson cycles, silently, then the low melodious tone of success rings throughout the Fortress.

The reflection cycle after, Kal removes the key holding Jor-El’s engram from his AI dock and weighs it in his hand thoughtfully. He wonders if his biological father was an actual sociopath or if it’s a byproduct of the process that attempts to turn emotions into AI rationale. He thinks about his own volatility and has to close his eyes and _breathe_ for long moments.

He is not Jor-El. He may be Kal-El, and he’s most definitely Clark Kent, but he doesn’t _have_ to be Jor-El. In the end, he sets it gently back into the slot. The AI is self-aware; it is a form of life, and it deserves to go on as well. That doesn’t mean Kal has to agree with it.

The most important lessons turn out to be about himself.

**~**

 

With that decision made, he thinks it's time to stop ignoring his emotions and figure out how he feels about the things that have happened to him. The things he has allowed to be perpetrated against him, and for him. Anger; that one is easy enough. Fear; that he’s gone too far, that he can never return to who he was, that he won’t go far enough to do what needs to be done. Hatred; of Bruce’s machinations and ploys, of being treated as if his emotions are expendable, as if he’s a child playing at forming attachments. As dark and tumultuous as these emotions are, they still don’t overshadow the love that Clark feels; they underline it. Bruce has worked so hard to push Clark away that he’s revealed his own hand.

Bruce decided that he knew what was best for Kal, and that what was best was _Bruce,_ until he’d realized that Kal thought the same thing. _That_ , Kal thinks, _is when Bruce scared himself_. There is no resolution; nothing Kal can do to rectify events as they are except return to his duty, and try to keep bright what pieces of their time together still glitter. The thought of approaching anyone else with his desires makes his stomach roil. No, he can’t do that—he’s never been able to make his body react when his heart is elsewhere. Kal will have to let this fire suffocate in its own time. Really, he thinks, it isn’t his job to fix things between them. He’s done crawling for scraps; he’ll crawl on his own terms or not at all.

Earth is his to protect; that fact isn’t under review, and it’s past time that he got back to saving people. It doesn’t matter that his heart is heavy; it doesn’t matter that he’s tired. This isn’t about him and it isn’t about Bruce; very few things are. What matters, is the people out there that he’s been blocking out, and the state of the world for which he’s left others to pull up his slack. It’s time to get back to work.

The AIs aren’t happy about his plans, but they know he’ll return—this is the only true home he has left. It brings a small smile to him, that he still has something, after all.

When he opens the shielding, the cacophony of humanity is so loud that he wonders how he could ever have possibly thought that his pain was any deeper than anyone else’s.

Superman returns to the world triumphantly, shoulders back and unbroken. He saves lives all around the world where he can, and never enters the city limits of Gotham. A quiet, solitary man named Kay takes up residence in one of Metropolis’ older tenements, works for daily cash, helping to clean the City of the Future in the wake of its many disasters.

Life goes on.


End file.
